


Carved my Oath with the Dagger from my Back

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Knives, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-29
Updated: 2010-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay comes bearing gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carved my Oath with the Dagger from my Back

\-- pulling Clay out of a burning building in Cali and somewhere along the way his blade gets stuck in the body of a thug with a two-by-four, or rather the blade gets stuck in the two-by-four and the guy gets a fist to his face. Roque doesn't have time to pull it out before shit gets blown to hell and so they just run, Pooch blabbering in his ear about how they have two minutes before payload delivery, and after all that, Clay just starts laughing, and in the humvee racing away he leans into Roque's neck and Roque can feel his breath, hot and humid and sharp on adrenalin, and all Roque can think is _oh, shit._

Medevac's delayed so Clay gets patched up by Cougar in the safehouse - he gets lucky, because Clay always gets lucky, because Clay's a lucky son of a bitch. His body is a patchwork of scars left behind by folks who, invariably, weren't quite as lucky as Clay. "I take it he'll live," Roque asks Cougar finally, and Cougar nods his head shortly. "Great." And then it's just Clay and Roque and a bottle of forty proof that Roque starts laying waste to until Clay sits up and says, "Hey, save some for me."

Roque pours him half a finger and holds the glass out for him to take. It's vodka, the shit the Russians drink, pure and cold as ice. Clay knocks it down and grimaces, then frowns at Roque's look. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Your nothings never mean nothing, Roque. What?"

"Fuck you."

"Okay so I guess this is how it's going to be tonight then." Clay holds his glass out and Roque pours him another, but rethinks it and takes the glass away, hands him the bottle instead. He goes back to his chair and sits and watches, but Clay only sits the bottle in his lap and says, "It was a good plan, okay."

"You always say that."

"And I always mean it. Shit happens."

"No, Clay. Shit doesn't just happen. Accidents happen. Getting hit by a bus when you're crossing the street. That happens. This? This is always you." He slams his glass down onto the table, and is building up for another round, but Clay's eyes are starting to close. Roque reaches forward and grabs the open bottle before it tips over and goes to waste.

-

"Hey, I got you a present," Clay says. Four days later, and they're still waiting for extraction. They're all ready to go home, getting antsy, except for Clay, who doesn't have a home to go to, just a house with dead plants and a tv that don't work.

"What do you mean you got me a present?"

"I mean I got you a fucking present. It's in my bag." He tilts his head. "Go on."

"It's not my birthday."

"It's never your birthday. Maybe we can just pretend it is."

It's a Bowie, stainless steel, eighteen inch fixed blade. "What is this."

"For what you lost."

"I got about three of these, Clay."

"Yeah, but this one's mine."

"What, did you get Jensen to buy it for you off eBay or something?"

Clay shrugs.

"Seriously?"

"Come on now, don't get sentimental on me okay." Clay's smile is all teeth, and charm, and Roque's not going to smile back, but then the smile comes anyway, and in the end he just sighs, tosses it into his bag.

And that's the first time.

-

Home, and they're watching the Mets lose to the Yankees at a bar somewhere, and at some point Roque figures he should probably get friends that aren't Clay. Maybe even a family if that's how it works out. A wife, maybe a few kids, although Roque's sure he'll be a shit father just like his own Dad was. That's how it works, or so he's heard. Generation upon generation of incompetence. Roque's never not been good at anything he's set his mind to, but maybe some things you just couldn't learn to get right no matter how much you wanted them to be. "So I was thinking," Clay says.

"No."

"You didn't even let me finish my sentence."

"The answer's still no."

"You keep saying that, and then you let me take you home anyway." The guy next to Clay turns and stares, and Clay shoots him a look, just for a second, and he slides away, lips pressed together and eyes fixed forward.

"Not tonight, Clay."

"Still not over Nicaragua, okay fine I get it." Clay scratches at his beard and looks straight ahead, his gaze fixed and distant, but Roque doesn't think Clay does, in fact, get it. Doesn't think Clay ever gets it, or ever will. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"No."

Next morning, he turns over and Clay's not there, but there's a sheath hiding eight inches of beauty, custom made with a black walnut burl handle, more for show than for any kind of practical use, with a note attached that says, _I heard Bosnia's nice this time of year._

Roque heads down, and Clay's in the kitchen breaking eggs, and there's coffee roasting in the machine. "I had to go out, get some provisions. You really should stock up more. There's nothing but beer in the fridge."

"Yeah." He pulls a chair to the counter and grabs a plate of scrambled eggs. "So, Bosnia huh," he says, though a mouthful. "Guess orders came down. About time too. I was getting bored."

"Eat your breakfast," Clay says.

And that's the second.

-

He loses the blade in one of their usual hurry up and wait games, to Jensen of all people, who says, "That is a sweet, sweet piece of metal," and ignores Roque's glare to croon at it, "Oh baby, I'll treat you better than Roque did, yes I will."

"A four to a fucking _three_," Roque says, and slams a fist down on the crate they're using as a makeshift table.

"Better than what I got," Pooch says amicably, and Roque turns his glare towards him instead. Cougar just smiles and seems unconcerned that he just lost, but then it's Cougar and he never plays with anything he can't afford to lose. Not that the blade is something Roque is sentimental over or anything, he might not have put it up if he was. Probably wouldn't have put it up if he was. Roque doesn't believe in getting attached to inanimate objects. Or animated objects for that matter.

Cold, was what his last girl called him, before she threw a paperweight at his head and stormed off. Roque didn't quite manage to duck in time, and Clay laughed at him for days afterwards, his fingers trailing the dark bruise along the line of Roque's jaw. "At least she didn't shoot me in the leg," he told Clay sourly, but Clay only grinned.

"What was she, a dentist or something?"

"Dental assistant."

"Gotta watch out for those. They're dangerous. All those sharp instruments they have access to."

Roque caught Clay's wandering hand with his own, twisted as far as Clay would let him, which was pretty far, until it started to hurt. "She said I was emotionally unavailable. What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I think it means she wants someone else." Which wasn't an answer, but Roque didn't much care anyway, and they both knew it.

He can't even recall her name now. What was it, Monique? Monica? Maryanne, maybe. There's a slight movement behind him, and he knows Clay's approaching before he even comes out from behind the trees. "We're up," Clay says, and Roque throws his card down and turns around. Squints against Clay standing there, body haloed by the sun.

Roque turns back to Jensen, holds out his hand. A bet's a bet, but Roque's tired of playing, and Jensen whines and says, "Come on man, you can't renege on a bet. Pooch tell him that he can't renege on a bet." He slaps the blade into Roque's palm though, mutters, "You owe me one, okay."

"Yeah, I do," Roque replies. "You can take whatever the fuck else you want from my bag."

-

The bomb goes off when they're about six feet away from it. They get lucky; Roque's on the ground and Clay's on his knees nearby, gaping at what used to be his car. "Volatile," he says under his breath, and there's a smile on his face Roque wants to knock off with his fucking nine mil.

He only staggers to his feet though, holds out a hand for Clay to pull him up. "You handle that bitch, Clay," Roque says, and Clay's smile fades away. "Or I will."

The motel room they're shacked up in has a tv with pay-per-view porn. Roque flips through the channels until he decides he'll pay, but five minutes in and the door's opening and he's pointing his gun at whoever's coming through. "So she said she's sorry," Clay says. "Her husband's kind of pissed though." He raises his brows at Roque's look. "I didn't sleep with her, I keep telling you."

"Clay, why do you tell me this as if you think I give a shit."

Clay throws himself heavily onto the couch, crosses his legs. "I don't. I tell you because I like to share. What on earth are they doing? Jesus I've not seen that since where was it -"

"Bangkok. The girl with the -"

"Yeah." He tilts his head. "They didn't do that though. That's just. Is that even physically possible?"

"According to Jensen, who by the way recommended this particular channel to me, it is and it feels fabulous."

"We believe him?"

"No. You want a beer?"

"Yeah, I'll take one." Roque gets up to go to the mini-fridge, and as he does, Clay says, "Hey, I was finishing up with the husband and he pulled a knife on me and I took it off of him, as one does when someone pulls a knife on you. It's an Argentum, would you believe that. He's not worthy of it."

And that's three.

**Author's Note:**

> For the **blades** square.


End file.
